


Blindfold

by SapphyreLily



Series: skein of light [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, ghost!Yamagata, guild wars 2 au, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 19:00:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13014117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: The veil between worlds is thin, on some days, and somehow, today, you've made a friend.





	Blindfold

**Author's Note:**

> Eck well yeah this started as a sad thing but it becomes happy okay, please don't kill me
> 
> Ps Happy KawaGata day

You stand in place; swirling, spinning – turning, turning, finding a way. Always reaching, stretching, fingers outstretched, searching, dipping, moving, towards something more.

Always searching, for something more.

What is more?

You wish you knew.

Reaching out in the dim light, fingers outstretched, pressing against the glow, the bright shine of the city lights, far away. Dragging them down, the trails of light clinging to your fingertips; a wisp of a memory, a taste of nostalgia.

They cling like static, hanging on, creating spirals as you spin, spin, spin. A tiny hurricane, a tornado of light, cocooning you.

Protecting you.

(You wish it was true.)

(Nothing can protect you.)

You hear something. A voice. Maybe. So you stop. Turn.

He stands there, the boy– No, the young man. Maybe he’s your age. You’re not sure. You don’t know if you care.

 _No,_ the maw inside you whispers. _We don’t care._

And you don’t.

But he speaks, you think, probably to you, and so you should listen.

_“What are you doing out here?”_

So far off, you think. His voice, so far away, as if he’s in another world. Perhaps he is.

“Dancing,” you reply. What else is there?

You think he smiles. _“For who?”_

Is that really a question?

“Myself,” you say, but you’re confused. Who else could there be around, to dance for? To perform for?

(Who else would want to be around you?)

 _“Oh.”_ He sits on the railing, now taller than you, feet swinging back and forth. His feet pass through the bars, and if you squint, you see a trail, a tiny, unearthly glow. _“Is that fun?”_

Fun, you ponder. What is fun?

You shrug. “It’s alright.”

He smiles, resting his head on his hands, elbows on knees. _“Don’t let me keep you. Pretend I’m not here.”_

“But how can I,” you say, “When I’m already aware you’re here?”

He turns his face down, his mouth disappearing behind his hands – maybe a frown? But he sits up just as quickly, grinning a little. _“I’ll just turn invisible. Don’t mind me.”_

And he’s gone.

You stare, blink at the space. Sigh a little to yourself. You can’t help the little smile that suddenly tugs at your lips.

 _Ghost_ , you think. _A spirit._

But you don’t mind the thought. Not at all.

What’s another spirit, when they’re all the company you know?

You turn back to the lights, the far off city. The world where you no longer belong. Where you never have belonged.

(The dead belong with the dead; the living, with the living.)

(You are neither. You don’t fit in.)

You reach towards the lights again, but the pull, the draw on your magic, it’s more difficult. It’s always more difficult, when you’re happy.

(Happi- _er._ You’re never happy.)

The aura is more ghostly now, ever wispier, ever paler. You wonder, if that’s because the sun is rising soon. The Mists always feel further away, when it grows close to dawn.

(Not that it matters, for you. Not that it matters, in battle. But it is not battle, it is a quiet, sad night, same as any other, and you – you hurt.)

(You can’t touch the Mists, not now.)

Your arms drop, the visage drops, and you sink to your knees in the sand. You stare out at the glittering city, the walls of Lion’s Arch, their ships bobbing in harbour, the citizens asleep, asleep, save for the Lionguard.

You wish you could know that. You wish you could have – could have more–

(What is more?)

 _“Hey.”_ The spirit’s voice comes from beside you, and you turn your head tiredly, slowly, achingly. You look at him.

He sits with his knees drawn up, head on knees, looking out to harbour like you are. Then he turns, cheek resting against his knees, blinking slowly at you. He looks sleepy. How can a ghost be sleepy?

“Hey.”

You sound so tired.

(You are.)

(You always are.)

The spirit smiles a little, reaches out to pat your hand. You feel it sink through you, but feel the spark of his spirit.

So bright. So hopeful. So kind and strong and–

“How?” The word slips out before you know it. “How do you keep hope? Even though you’re…”

 _“Dead? Don’t worry, you can say it.”_ He grins at you, but doesn’t move his hand. His fingers overlap with yours, and it looks like your fingers are intertwined.

“…so how?”

The spirit hums, taking his hand back, arms wrapping more tightly around his knees. _“I dunno. I suppose it’s because I_ am _dead, you know? Because I have nothing to lose.”_

“But… Isn’t it lonely? In the Mists?”

The spirit looks at you, looks _through_ you. You feel too exposed. Naked.

 _“Maybe?”_ The spirit says, but he sounds unsure. _“I just wander. I’ve never thought about it, being lonely, when there’s so much to explore. The Mists are so large, you know.”_

“I… I know.”

You do. You really do.

 _“Hey. Hey, hey, hey, don’t leave now.”_ The ghost waves his hands frantically in front of you, and you blink. Blink. Blink, feeling the hot water trickling down your face.

Oh.

“I’m fine,” you say, but the words are thick in your throat. The tears are still falling, but you don’t know why.

_Why?_

He looks at you, the spirit, and places a hand on your shoulder, gently, so that he won’t pass through you. He looks at you, features stern, as if concentrating, and you blink, blink. Hoping, that the tears will stop. You hate the waterworks.

 _“Hey,”_ he says, and his hand moves up to cup your cheek, to brush away tears that he cannot touch. _“Don’t I know you, from somewhere?”_

“Do you?” You don’t remember. But then again, you don’t remember much– You never have–

_“Yeah. Like, I was alive a loooong time ago, you know? But it feels like I’ve seen you, somewhere–”_

You laugh a little, but it’s hollow, empty. “Maybe you have. I’m a revenant.”

 _“That means nothing. Most revenants draw on the Mists but they don’t know very much about it save for the legendary spirits–”_ The spirit’s hand stills. He brings his face closer, peering, peering, as if he can see in the dim light.

You don’t know. Maybe he _can._

The spirit's grip tightens; you know this because you can feel his fingers in your face. It’s a bit odd, but not uncomfortable, so you don’t shake him off.

_“I do know you. You’re the lost child, aren’t you?”_

You swallow thickly.

(You had hoped that you’d never hear that title, that _name_ , ever again.)

“That’s what they used to call me, yes.”

 _“You escaped.”_ The spirit’s voice is full of wonder. _“You got out. Alive.”_

“But at no small price.” It comes out more bitterly than you thought it would.

_“But you are alive.”_

“Not really.”

 _Not really_ , the maw inside you agrees. _We will never be fixed._

(Never, never, never. It echoes inside you like a bad promise, like a curse.)

 _“No?”_ The spirit looks at you, removes his hand.

You have an urge to tell him. To tell the first person – or non-person – because before, no one would stay.

“Are you alive, if you had lived your entire life in the Mists, not knowing what was real or not?”

Halfway to the truth, but you don’t want to say more.

The spirit blinks, looks at you again. His expression is pained, now. _“No child should have to go through that.”_

“No,” you agree, and look down at your knees, sunken in sand. Again, softly, more quietly, “No.”

_“But you left. You got out.”_

“A part of me is still there.” You look up at him, but your voice has cracked, and the cursed tears still come. “You know, a part of you– It never leaves the Mists– And after you’ve been there, for so long–”

 _“It consumes the mortality of your soul.”_ The spirit has his hands on your face again, pressing against the hot water, thumbs brushing under your eyes as if he could wipe them away. _“I see now.”_

“Yeah,” you try, but it comes out so cracked that you dare not try again.

Why are you telling him all this? A stranger, a spirit, someone who shouldn’t even be here–

“How did you get here?”

The Mists overlap with Tyria, with other worlds, but the veil is not that thin.

The spirit frowns. _“There was a tear. Just a small one. I popped out to take a look, and there you were.”_

Your magic. It has to be.

You bow your head. “I’m sorry.”

You forget, that sometimes, you are too strong. A side effect, from living in the Mists for so long.

 _“For what?”_ The spirit sounds baffled. _“I always wanted to see Tyria again. The Obsidian Sanctum is nice but it gets real boring.”_

You nearly laugh. “There’s so much to the Mists, you could go beyond the Sanctum.”

 _“Well, yeah, but I don’t really want to be hunted down by others, y’know?”_ The spirit sits back on his heels, humming. _“I like it better when I don’t have to spend time reforming.”_

“I feel that.”

So many of the spirits you knew, they had been torn apart protecting you. Until you found out how to channel the legendary powers, until you could fight for yourself.

It took so long. So long for them to reform.

You might be crying again. Tonight is a bad night.

_“Hey, hey, stop that. Save your water, geez.”_

You do laugh, now. That’s the funniest, most logical thing anyone has said to you.

_“Aha, that’s better. Laugh more, you’ve got a great smile.”_

“You are weird,” you tell him. But the maw, it is quiet inside you. And for that, you are grateful to him, this spirit.

 _“I’ve only been dead several hundred years. No biggie.”_ The spirit sits in front of you, placing his hands over yours, and you feel it. The warmth of his essence, pulsing through him. So much life, for one dead so long.

“You are the most alive person I have ever met.”

The spirit raises his brows. _“Well, thank you. And you’re the deadest live human I’ve ever met, not that I’ve met very many live humans.”_

“Thanks.”

_“Not a compliment. Hey, would you show me Tyria? It’s been so long since I’ve been here. What’s that over there, anyway? The lights?”_

You feel tired from his babbling, but also faintly amused. “Lion’s Arch. They’ve rebuilt it for the second time.”

 _“The_ second _time? Gee, what happened? I only know of the first time it got drowned, and that’s because I ran into Cobiah Marriner himself.”_

“It’s…a long story.”

_“Hey, we’ve got time. And you know what, I’m gonna stick with you, dead-live human. You say I’ve got life? I gotta share it with you. You did cause the tear that brought me back into Tyria.”_

“Um.”

_“Just say thank you and let’s hear this story of Lion’s Arch drowning a second time.”_

“Thank you.” You put a hand on the sand, pulling yourself into a cross-legged position. You wait. Stare at the spirit, trying to memorize the look of him before the sun comes up, or the Mists recall him.

(You’re not sure if the second one can be done, but… It seems that you might have a friend, and you wouldn’t want to lose him, not now.)

(Not this soon, not when you’ve just opened your dead heart to the idea of companionship.)

_“What? I think I’m visible, right?”_

“You are,” you assure him. “I was just wondering your name.”

_“Oh! I haven’t had a name in a long time. Call me Hayato. No place for family names when all your family is dead too.”_

“You’re so casual about this.”

(Hayato may not mind, but _your_ heart aches, thinking of everyone lost to death.)

 _“Eh. Been dead a long time, remember?”_ He shrugs. _“What’s your name? And_ then _tell me the story. I think the sun’s coming up.”_

“I can still hear and probably see you if the sun's up, but you’d be a little less visible.”

_“Right. Revenant. Forgot.”_

“Probably also because I spent so long in the Mists,” you admit. “I can differentiate between what’s here and what’s there. That’s why I don’t need the blindfold.”

_“Yeah, I was wondering about that. Thanks for sharing, man. But enough emotional talk, yeah? Let’s talk history. And your name, so I won’t have to keep calling you dead-live human. That’s kinda rude.”_

You do smile, no matter that it’s tired and worn and you would really like to lie down and sleep and perhaps die for real. “Sounds good. You can call me Taichi.

“And now, about Lion’s Arch…”


End file.
